After flailing around for what felt like forever, I finally managed to get out of the snow.

  I needed to find shelter—and fast. If I stayed here, it wouldn’t take long before I was buried under the relentless snowfall.

  I tried walking, but as expected, it was a mess. Have you ever tried walking with four legs? No arms to balance, just a tail—which I had no idea how to use. It felt foreign, like an extension of me that didn’t belong.

  After some trial and error, I managed to gain a passable level of control and started walking cautiously.

  Suddenly, I tripped over something and fell face-first into the snow. Again.

  "I feel like a newborn foal," I muttered, frustrated, as I attempted to spit the snow out of my mouth. That, too, was a struggle. No hands to help.

  Eventually, I gave up and let the snow melt in my mouth, grumbling the entire time.

  I turned back to see what I had tripped over. After all, the only thing I’d seen so far was the endless white. My luck couldn’t be this bad—tripping over something on my first real attempt at walking?

  Then I saw it.

  "...Oh shit. Is that... what I think it is?"

  It was a human hand. Fingers, to be precise. They were so blue from the cold that I didn’t recognize them at first.

  Panic set in as I moved closer, checking if the person was alive. But deep down, I already knew they weren’t. Still, I tried to dig them out. My efforts were clumsy, and when that didn’t work, I resorted to biting their fingers to pull them free.

  It was like biting a rock. Undeterred, I pulled as hard as I could.

  Crack.

  I froze. I had pulled so hard that part of their fingers broke off in my mouth.

  For a long moment, I sat there, stunned. Then, slowly, I dropped the severed fingers from my mouth and stared at them in silence.

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  I remembered the unbearable cold I felt in my final moments. Was that how they felt too? Or had they gone numb to it over time? Were they scared? Lonely? What were their last thoughts—or did they even have any?

  So many questions. Questions that would never be answered.

  At some point, I got back up, a new determination burning within me. I started digging again.

  The snow resisted me at every turn, filling in the holes I made, but I refused to stop.

  Hours passed—or maybe it was only minutes; time seemed meaningless in the endless white. Eventually, the snowstorm began to subside. For the first time, I could see progress in my digging, and that small victory gave me the strength to keep going.

  At some point, I found another arm buried in the snow. Relief washed over me.

  They weren’t alone.

  It was a twisted thing to be happy about, but knowing they hadn’t died alone brought me a strange sense of comfort. I knew how it felt to die all alone.

  Of all the pain I experienced during my death, the worst wasn’t the cold or the headaches. It was the loneliness. Even though I had people who loved me—family, friends—they weren’t there.

  I didn’t have many friends, but the number never mattered to me. The few I had were worth more than a hundred acquaintances. We were so close, almost inseparable.

  To be honest, I was more attached to them than I ever was to my family. It’s not that I disliked my family—far from it—I loved them. But it just wasn’t the same. With friends, you choose each other. With family, you don’t get that choice.

  Looking back, I left too many things behind. Too many moments I took for granted. Too many people I wish I had cherished more.

  But in the end, no matter how much they cared about me, no matter how many people loved me—I still died alone.

  “I wonder how they’ll feel about my death,” I mused aloud, my thoughts wandering as I dug. “Maybe they’ve already found my body.”

  Talking to myself kept my mind occupied. Digging was monotonous and exhausting, and the thoughts swirling in my head were a welcome distraction.

  Why did I even die, anyway? What had caused it?

  I’d been fine the day before. Then, out of nowhere, I was hit with an unbearable headache. After that came the chills, and finally, the numbness.

  I did take painkillers, but… were they even painkillers?

  Would my parents blame themselves for my death? Or worse—would they think I’d taken my own life?

  The thought chilled me more than the snow ever could. I’d promised myself I’d never die that way. There had been a time when I thought I would—when I felt like I had no choice. But I’d overcome it.

  I didn’t want them to believe I’d gone back on that promise.

  Crunch. Crunch.

  I froze. Something was approaching.

  I looked up, my ears straining to catch the sound.

  Looking around there was nowhere to hide.

  Soon, I saw them—three figures cutting through the snow. Two men and a woman.

  The woman stopped walking as soon as she spotted me.

  “Hey, Ratasha! Why are you stopping all of a sudden?” a tall man called out.

  She raised her hand and pointed directly at me. 'What... is that?'"